


the white wolf hungers

by paintingraves (kallistob)



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Attraction, Bad Flirting, Confident Geralt, Dirty Talk, Flirting, Geralt is emotionally constipated, Humor, M/M, Teasing, blink and you miss it angst, confident jaskier, idk what to tag this, saucy ballads
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-30
Updated: 2020-03-30
Packaged: 2021-02-22 21:17:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23400553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kallistob/pseuds/paintingraves
Summary: Geralt has a problem. He decides to do something about it.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 22
Kudos: 258





	the white wolf hungers

**Author's Note:**

> hello !!!!  
> i had lots of fun writing this and i hope it makes you smile too !! <3

Geralt has… a problem. 

A very bright, bubbly, exuberant, extravagant, flamboyant, talkative, joyful, loud, stubborn, proud, annoying and yet attaching _problem_. 

A human problem, who claims the two of them are best friends when they met each other barely two weeks ago; a problem that - try as he might - Geralt can’t rid of. Jaskier clings to him like a barnacle to a fucking rock, like a duckling to its mother, like a leech to one's skin. He is young, he is stupid, and he has somehow decided that he would follow Geralt to the end of the world. There isn’t a single thing Geralt can do about it. He’s tried, but no matter what he does, Jaskier isn't bothered. He wasn't bothered by Geralt punching him in the gut, wasn't bothered by Geralt’s less than stellar conversation skills or by his brooding, rude manners, wasn't bothered even by the fact that they had almost died at the hands of starving elves within an hour of knowing each other. 

No, Jaskier, in the face of all this, took his lute, beamed at Geralt and singlehandedly decided it’d be a good idea to sing the witcher's praises. 

Geralt couldn’t fucking believe him. 

He was like a ray of sunshine, happiness and carelessness personified. Sometimes it felt as though Geralt couldn't look directly at him for fear of burning, which was ridiculous. Witchers didn't know fear. The bard was ridiculous, and Geralt hated how uneasy his presence made him feel. Why wouldn't the bard leave? Did he have a death wish? Why did he insist on following Geralt around? Why didn't Geralt scare him off? What did he see in Geralt that was worth so much of his attention?! 

-

Jaskier was humming behind him as Roach ambled languidly along the path. 

It was a hot day. Geralt had dismounted her early on not to tire the horse too much. They still had a long way to go. Hopefully they’d make it to the next village before nightfall. Geralt hoped to find a new contract waiting there for him. If he did, he would have to argue with Jaskier _again_ to get the bard to stay behind for his own safety while he hunted the actual monster. Jaskier, the idiot, rarely listened. 

Geralt briefly turned his head to look at the bard. Jaskier had put _flowers_ in his hair as if he was a fair maiden (yellow and pink blossoms that made the baby blue of his eyes pop). He smiled at Geralt like the witcher had hung the stars in the sky when he noticed him looking. Geralt quickly turned back around, and cursed his heart for suddenly beating fast. 

Why was Jaskier so damned happy around him? There was nothing pleasant about Geralt's job. 

The constant traveling was hard on the mind and the body, he risked his life for every contract he accepted, yet he still took them because otherwise he wouldn't eat. Jaskier was clearly high born; it was in the way he carried himself, the way he spoke, and his love for the finer things in life. He wore silk and ruffles and frills and scented oils, and absolutely balked when Geralt had revealed he sometimes went two weeks without bathing. The bard's place wasn't on the road traveling with a hardened witcher. It was in court, entertaining giddy, wine-drunk nobles. What was he doing here? 

Even now his behavior made no sense for Geralt: the weather was hot and stuffy, they had been walking for hours and even he was feeling the pangs of hunger. Jaskier must have been even more tired, thirsty and hungry - and yet he hummed songs under his breath, talked aloud and wove flowers into his hair, as cheerful as a lark. It was like nothing could reach him and ruin his constant good mood. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt said. 

“Hmmm?” 

“Why are you so happy.” Geralt stared resolutely straight ahead. 

“Why am I…?" Jaskier sounded puzzled. "Why, Geralt, what an odd question! Why shouldn't I feel happy? I’m here with you, the weather is shining, the birds are singing, summer is just around the corner - bringing its fair share of festivities and merry-making - what is there not to be happy about?” 

“I - it's too hot,” Geralt grunted. “I know your feet hurt, I can hear you limping a bit, your pace is irregular. I know you’re hungry because your stomach keeps making enough noise to wake the dead. You're sweaty, you reek, I know you long for a bath and freshwater. I know the clouds of midges in the air annoy you and the sound of crickets grate on your ears.” 

Jaskier stopped humming. He said, “I think you might be projecting a bit, Geralt, my dear-- I am perfectly fine and this is a beautiful day! I choose to focus on the simple beauty of nature. Hunger can wait. It's not because _you_ have decided to adopt the dark, brooding, grumpy personality and reject every ounce of light and love in your life that all of us must do the same! You should try smiling more, not just at people, but at everything you see. There was a gorgeous butterfly gathering nectar on a flower earlier, did you see it? Shimmering blue and green colors! Look at the world through my eyes sometimes, the eyes of a poet, not a hunter's. You'll understand then why I am so happy.” 

Geralt stopped walking abruptly, feeling as if he’d just been suckerpunched for some reason. Roach stopped with him and neighed softly. Jaskier, unbothered, merrily walked past them until he was leading the odd procession. And he started singing, his lovely voice washing over Geralt like a gentle valley breeze. 

> _When a humble bard_
> 
> _Graced a ride along_
> 
> _With Geralt of Rivia_
> 
> _Along came this song…_

Geralt grit his teeth, and he followed him. 

\----

Jaskier performed at the inn they stayed at that night, while Geralt sulked and drank his ale alone in a dark corner. 

What Jaskier had said earlier rattled him. He didn’t like it. Choosing the darkness? He didn't choose the darkness like a cliched villain straight out of a fairytale, he wore black because he liked it, and because it was strategic : if one were to walk into the den of a monster, one couldn’t be expected to blend in with the shadows if one wore happy colors. It was a practical and fashionable choice -- no matter what Jaskier said. Geralt liked black, and he liked leather, and he knew he looked good in both, end of story. Just because _Jaskier_ chose to dress with every color of the rainbow, screaming to be noticed, didn’t mean everyone had to do the same. This went both ways! 

The brooding act? The loneliness? Yes, Geralt could admit he did that. But it was out of consideration for others, and to protect himself as well. 

Social skills weren’t exactly a subject taught in witcher school; to fight monsters, one didn’t need to know how to _talk_. Geralt had always been awkward at best around other people since a young age; and the life of a witcher was a lonely one, which didn't improve matters. He sometimes went weeks without speaking to anybody, and he found it very difficult to interact with society. He had decided he would spare everyone the pain of having to suffer through a conversation with him. He always put his foot in his mouth, said either too much or not enough... He couldn't read social cues and made people uncomfortable. That was how things had been for years now, and he didn’t know how to fix it, nor did he particularly wish to. He was who he was. 

Besides, even if he’d _had_ a good social intelligence, even if he _had_ been capable of charming everyone he met, it wouldn’t have worked because people loathed witchers. 

Humans barely tolerated his presence among them even when they desperately needed his help. Everywhere he went, he was met with distrust, scorn, anger and hatred. Keeping himself away from them was a matter of self preservation. 

When Geralt fancied company, which unfortunately happened sometimes, he would go to a brothel and spend a few days there. He always apologized to whichever whore he chose for having to be with him for so long. They smiled prettily and said it was alright, but he knew better. Everyone feared witchers. 

In these whorehouses, he would sort of heal the most human side of him for a while, the one he couldn’t seem to crush down -- the one that was starved for touch, gentle words, tender affection. The one that desperately wanted to love and be loved in turn. _Feelings made witchers weak. A weak witcher was a dead witcher_. For a little while, Geralt allowed himself to be weak, to soak in the softly spoken words and gentle caresses of a woman, even if it was all lies; and it gave him enough strength to walk the Path once more, for months on end, fighting nightmarish monster after nightmarish monster - saving individuals, families, entire towns - and getting creatively insulted for his troubles. 

Sometimes, he lashed out in turn. There was only so much injustice one could bear. 

And so what if he played into their deepest fears and their fantasies? 

What if he punched a man so hard he broke a few ribs after he’d made the mistake of spitting at Geralt’s feet? What if he threw the alderman out of a window (he was fine, it was one storey) when he refused to pay him after Geralt spent two _nights_ getting rid of a bruxae’s nest? What if now and then he growled, snarled and bared his teeth the way no human being ever would? He was allowed! He wasn’t unfeeling, contrary to what the legends said! Otherwise he wouldn’t act this way! The thing about witchers having no emotion was a lie people told themselves to justify their ugly behaviors towards him. 

So what if being the object of such freely given hatred made him ache, deep in his bones, deep in his heart? What if every time he was chased out of a village, it felt like he was leaving behind him a trail of shards - the pieces of his broken heart? There was nothing to be done. That was how this world worked, and Geralt had learned to accept it. He had made his peace with it, had learnt what his place was, what was expected of him, and what boundaries he shouldn’t cross. He couldn’t get chummy with humans because they didn’t want him to. 

So Geralt worked alone, ate alone, drank alone, slept alone, traveled alone, and it was all fine. 

He talked to his horse. At least she liked him. It was fine. 

Then one day an eighteen year old, wide-eyed, clever-tongued bardling had barreled into his life and made himself a home at Geralt’s side. 

_Really_. What the fuck was wrong with Jaskier? 

Geralt drank some more. 

Jaskier’s voice was weaker than before; he must be nearing the end of his set (not that Geralt cared. He didn't. He would like to make it very clear that he didn't care for the bard.) Still he looked at him, noticing the beads of sweat on Jaskier's brows, the baby hair plastered to the side of his face, and his cheeks, covered with peach down, flushed and rosy. He noticed Jaskier’s pink lips, stretched into a sunny smile; the barely noticeable stubble covering his chin and jaw; his adam’s apple, bobbing as he sang loudly, giving his audience his all. His hands were pale, long-fingered, agile, busily tugging at the strings of his lute as he played the instrument with expertise (how long had he been a musician? Ten years? More?). Geralt noticed Jaskier’s shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and the dark hair covering his forearms. His collar was wide open too, giving everyone who looked an indecent peek at Jaskier’s chest, even hairier than his arms. And Geralt was struck by the sudden urge to bury his face there and lick Jaskier’s collarbone. 

He froze suddenly as if he was a startled deer. He clenched his hand around his tankard of ale, squeezed his knees together, and tried very hard to pretend like that last wild thought hadn’t just made him feel hot all over. Or that he hadn’t been ogling Jaskier unashamedly for the last five minutes. _Fuck_. 

That… That was an entirely different problem. Jaskier was a thorn in his side ever since they had met, that was how Geralt had labeled him. This… changed matters. He looked away from the younger man and lowered his head, his cheeks burning with shame. What the _fuck._ Was Jaskier an incubi? A siren?! Geralt glanced back at him with suspicion. He was standing up on a table, his back to Geralt, and this time Geralt was struck with the sudden desire to put his hands right on Jaskier’s thighs. _What the fuck!_

His heart was racing. He felt as flustered as the first time he’d been to a brothel and lost his virginity to a woman. Actually no, scratch that : he felt as flustered as the night he had first experienced sexual intimacy with someone… As flustered as that night in Kaer Morhen when he’d woken up to weird sounds, only to find his bedmate wanking ; and instead of doing what anyone else would have and pretend he was still asleep, he’d reached out, overwhelmed by the sudden need to _touch_ the other boy. Peter had gasped, had said _Geralt_ in a trembling voice, and Geralt had touched him, feeling like he was on fire and oh, gods… 

_Fuck_. Such thoughts weren't helping his case. 

It must be the alcohol, Geralt decides. And it's been far too long since he slept with anyone. (He can still feel his blood rushing to his face with every panicked beat of his heart. He must be flushed pink, like he did when he spared for hours with another witcher.) He just needs to sleep and everything will go back to normal, and he won’t go lusting after… Gods, Jaskier is eighteen years old, what the fuck is Geralt doing? 

(The worst thing is, he knows Jaskier would say yes if he asked... Probably. Undoubtedly. The bard has called him beautiful and handsome more times than Geralt can count, and he might not be the best at flirting or understanding social cues, but that’s as obvious as it gets!) 

But he can’t! He can’t bed Jaskier. For one, because he’s only just now realized that apparently he is _attracted_ to him and _likes_ the bard much more than he thought, which - what? Where did that come from? And secondly - secondly, Jaskier is too young. Okay, that’s a weak argument. Geralt doesn't actually care. And thirdly - well, thirdly, he won’t bed Jaskier, because if Jaskier was hard to get rid of before, now he’s just going to become absolutely unbearable. He'd follow Geralt to his grave. 

He ignores the little voice in his head that says it wouldn’t be so bad. _No_. He refuses to drag Jaskier down with him in his fucking joke of a life. It's too dangerous. Besides Geralt is just a passing fancy for the bard, soon enough Jaskier will get tired of him and leave him of his own accord. Humans are contradictory; the more you tell them to do something, the less they’ll want to do it. Jaskier shouldn’t be an exception to the rule, so Geralt makes the decision to stop telling him to leave off like he has so far. He’ll suffer Jaskier’s presence in resigned silence, and then at some point down the road, Jaskier will leave. The less Geralt lets him see he actually appreciates his company, the better. And bedding him is not the way to do that. 

He breathes out, happy to have reached a semblance of conclusion amidst the maelstrom of his thoughts. 

Jaskier bothers him, because he doesn’t act in any way that Geralt could predict. It is unsettling… and, according to Geralt’s newly awoken libido, it is also highly attractive. He groans in defeat. He’ll just call it an early night and go up to the room they share to sleep it off. 

Jaskier, still standing up on that table, is now bowing deeply to his audience under a shower of applause and appreciative whistles. Hmm. Geralt was so lost in his own thoughts he hadn’t paid any attention to Jaskier’s actual performance, but it seems the bardling has made progress since Posada. He gets coin thrown at him this time and not stale bread. Go figure. 

“Thank you, thank you!” Jaskier says loudly, joyfully. “I’m Jaskier, remember my name!” He bows once more and jumps off the table, making a beeline towards Geralt. 

The witcher can't move. His stomach is in knots, his palms are sweating. He grunts when Jaskier sits across from him, resolutely not looking at the bard’s face lest those… inappropriate thoughts start again. 

“I’m positively ravenous,” Jaskier says. “Have you eaten, Geralt? Or have you just been nursing your drink since I left you there? How long has that glass been empty? How many have you drunk? Oh, I need to catch up. Helloooo,” he calls to the barmaid, waving his hand in the air. Geralt clears his throat. 

“You did well,” he says gruffly, and regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth. Fuck. Too late. 

“What was that?” The barmaid places a cup of ale in front of him and takes Jaskier’s coin. 

“I…” Geralt takes a deep breath. “You -- did well. They… like your song.” 

Jaskier stares at him, his mouth half-open, his eyes wide with surprise. He swallows, licks his lips, then bites them nervously. Geralt suffers in silence. He hopes he doesn't look as hungry as he feels, because yep - it wasn’t just a one-time thing it seems. He still wants to lick Jaskier’s collarbone, and now it's worse because the bard is right _there_. 

Geralt wants to kiss him. He really, really wants to kiss him. He wants to reach out and touch Jaskier's hair. He wants to readjust his collar and brush Jaskier's neck with his fingers. He wants… He wants to push the table away and sit in Jaskier’s lap and wrap his arms around the man's neck. They would look absolutely ridiculous, but Geralt still _wants_ that and more, and he’s so _fucked._

Might as well face this head on. Geralt’s never been one to shy away from danger. And this isn’t dangerous, it’s just his good ol’ friend lust who decides to show up at the most inopportune moments and make Geralt throw himself at the weirdest people. What can he do. 

“Thank you?” Jaskier says softly, still looking bewildered. 

“I’ll buy you another drink. After. To…” Geralt struggles. “Celebrate. It seems you were right.” 

“I was right?” Jaskier parrots. 

“About the songs. About me.” 

“I was right about the songs about you,” Jaskier repeats again, lost. 

“That’s what I said.” Geralt is annoyed now. He’s not very good at flirting. Well. “Listen,” he says, leaning closer, his elbows on the table. “Do you want to fuck?” 

Jaskier promptly chokes on his drink. 

Five minutes later, his eyes watery, his cheeks reddened, Jaskier wipes the ale on his chin with the back of his hand and says, _“What?”_

“Do. you. want. to. fuck.” 

Geralt is regretting this. 

Jaskier just stares at him. Then he pinches his right arm. Geralt leans back in his seat and growls at nothing. “Forget it,” he mutters. “This was a bad idea anyway. I must be - drunk.” Far from it. 

“Yes,” Jaskier says. 

This time it is Geralt who looks startled. 

_“Yes?”_

“Yes, I do want to fuck. Just to be clear, you mean with you, right?” 

“What - of course I mean with me, who else would it be?” 

“I don’t know, just making sure,” Jaskier shrugs. “Gods I’m not drunk enough for this. Geralt, am I dreaming?” 

“What does that mean,” Geralt says, self-conscious. Does Jaskier need to be drunk to sleep with him? Is he like the rest, afraid of witchers but in it for the thrill of the ride anyway? 

“Nothing, gods, don’t make that face Geralt, you’re breaking my heart. I just. Didn’t expect you to be so blunt? Or to speak so much - this is the longest string of words I’ve heard you utter since we met, and it’s you propositioning me? Unexpected, to say the least. Where did this come from?” 

“Don’t know,” Geralt says honestly. “I was just watching you, and…”

“And…?” 

“... And I liked what I saw?” Geralt says. He sounds shy and he hates it. Jaksier straightens on the bench and smirks. 

Geralt wants to kiss him stupid. He really wants to. It's a problem. 

“Well then,” Jaskier murmurs. “Why don’t you go upstairs and get undressed? I’ll be right there.” He pauses, taps his fingers lightly against the rim of his cup. “Don’t touch yourself. Lie on the bed and wait for me. Think about what you want, Geralt... When I’m there with you, I want you to be able to tell me in detail what you really desire so that I can… satisfy you.” He smiles teasingly. “I’ve been wanting to get _personally_ acquainted with your gorgeous body ever since I first saw you back in Posada. I want to do all sorts of wicked things to you - if you'll let me.” 

Geralt swallows. Even in the hubbub of the inn, he hears Jaskier as clearly as if the man were whispering in his ear. The bard's voice drips with want. If Geralt breathes deeply, he can smell the faint scent of arousal coming from him. 

It seems Jaskier really wants this and wasn't just playing. Good. 

“You’re all bark and no bite, bard,” he says, baring his sharp teeth at Jaskier in a predatory grin. The smell of arousal grows stronger. Jaskier looks _hungry._ “You’re a pup. You’ll be the one screaming in no time, and even then I might not show you mercy. I'll just keep fucking you until you forget your own name.” 

“Ah," Jaskier says, pretending to be unaffected. He shifts minutely in his seat. "We’ll see about that. You've been lonely, witcher, haven't you? Months spent on the road fighting monsters and meeting people who fear you. I bet you're really pent up there, uh?" 

Geralt _snarls_ at that, and Jaskier shivers bodily, but not in fear. Never in fear. Geralt gets up, and Jaskier’s eyes immediately follow the length of his body down to his crotch. “See something you like?” The witcher asks. He is half-hard. 

“Can I suck you?” Jaskier says bluntly. He licks his lips again. “I’m very good at it, Geralt. Can take all of you. Make you come.” And, to emphasize his point, he makes a very obscene gesture : he curls his fist, and tongues the inside of his mouth to make it bulge in time with his hand's mock thrusts -- pretending to be sucking dick. Then he has the audacity to _grin_. 

“You little shit,” Geralt growls. "You can't handle me, boy." 

“You love it,” Jaskier retorts without missing a beat. “Come on, Geralt, go up to our room, we don’t have all day."

“Come with me.” 

“Oh no no no -- I’m going to sit here and finish my drink slowly, while I picture how best to take you apart. And then I will come up, and you’ll be there waiting for me on the bed - all naked and wanting. You want me to touch you. I will walk up to you, I will kiss you, and I will climb in your lap and push you down even as you try to kiss me back - your large hands gripping my hips, feeling me up. I will kiss you again, kiss you some more, suck on your tongue, bite your lips, while my hands caress your body. I want to feel you, Geralt, I want to feel how strong and how _hard_ you are for me.” 

Geralt curses softly.

He can't find anything clever to reply, so he leaves. The sound of Jaskier’s pearly laughter accompanies him all the way up the stairs. 

Fuck. 

He is hard and wanting _alright_ , and suddenly he understands why Jaskier told him not to touch himself. Young as he might be, it seems like his little lark wasn’t just bragging when it came to his sexual prowesses. 

But Geralt isn’t exactly a blushing virgin either, far from it. This will be a night to remember, he’ll make sure of that. 

The game is on. 

(If it's good enough, Jaskier might even make a ballad out of it.) 

\----

Geralt has a problem. 

The problem is singing. 

> “ _As thick as a trunk_
> 
> _As long as your arm,_
> 
> _Drop your panties, ladies,_
> 
> _For the White Wolf hungers!”_

“Jaskier!” Geralt says. 

> _“Gentlemen, be prepared,_
> 
> _To swallow your pride,_
> 
> _To curse and to cry,_
> 
> _For the White Wolf hungers!”_

“Jaskier, for fuck’s sake --” 

> _“O’ he wants and he takes,_
> 
> _Makes you forget your name,_
> 
> _No gods will answer your prayers,_
> 
> _When the White Wolf hungeeeeers!”_

Jaskier holds the final note for an impressive amount of time. Geralt just sighs loudly, resisting the urge to cover his face with his hands. 

Be careful what you wish for, isn't that how the saying goes? He seduced the bard, and this is what he gets for his troubles. He knew this exact thing would happen, but still. 

“Come on, it’s not that bad,” Jaskier teases. “Sure, it could use some rephrasing, but I think I’ve got the gist of it.” 

“Can't we just sleep together without you needing to sing about it?” 

“Nope!” Jaskier says, way too cheerfully. "I wouldn't be me otherwise." He smiles and continues strumming his lute. 

“Fuck,” Geralt says emphatically. Truth be told, nowadays he isn’t quite sure which one of them is the wolf anymore in this whole metaphor. 

(He doesn’t regret it. One of the best nights of his life. Jaskier really did know how to put his mouth to good use.) 

**Author's Note:**

> toss a comment to your writer ~


End file.
